


HANDS ON

by Queenoftheuniverse, VincentMeoblinn



Series: 1234 I Declare a Fic War only we Love Each Other so it's not Very Warry [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Anal, Anal Fingering, Chapter one, Chapter two, Dirty Talk, Dubious Ethics, Foot Fetish, Frottage, Happy Ending, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Massage, Mutual Masturbation, Oily cock, Prostate Massage, Voice Kink, tiny mention of war wounds, very very very light D/s tones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 13:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1859217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A (loving) prompt war fic between 2 authors:<br/>Prompt 1: Masseur Sherlock seduces his client John during a session.<br/>Prompt 2: John is a masseur who seduces his sexy client.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PERFECT

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Val_rae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_rae/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a "guilt gift" from Harry, a day at a spa. He is promised the full package, which includes a remedial masseuse for his war wound from a famous massage therapist, Sherlock Holmes. Within minutes this talented man deduces John is touch starved and deserves a very happy ending. Wink wink.

PERFECT

"Well..." Thought John. "My arsehole has not seen so much attention since the army..."

He lent happily over the massage bench which, to his pleasantly foggy brain, reminded him of the tattoo chair he'd sat in in Kandahar to have his regimental insignia inked under his bicep. He glanced at it, a bit settled into his epidermis now, but still clear and bright. Sure, those were the very worst days of his life, but also some of the very best.

Harry was the reason he was here now, in only his pants and suit trousers, naked torso leaning over a crisp, padded vinyl bench, hands pillowing his head. She had given him a spa day, and had seriously demanded he use it. 

"It's not just for girls John. Just....I've not been there for you much..and this pampering is my way of sticking all my 'sorries' and 'love yous' and 'should have been there's' in one big lump. You know I am an all or nothing girl.."

John had taken the voucher and stuck it in his wallet. 

And you know what? A week later he was here, and he was very glad he had made the effort.

These people were professional, sure, but man they knew their buisness. He'd been waxed, smoothed, manied, peddied, masqued, shaved and high-coloniced until he glowed and shone, and he truly believed he had not been so relaxed in his entire life. Even the high colonic in his newly-waxed crack didn't faze him, he felt so pure and clean and shiny and pink, even on the inside, and it was a great feeling. They had even washed and trimmed and masqued his hair...his HAIR for Lords sake! 

And now he waited for what the pink polo-shirted staff assured him was the best masseuse ever in any world ever. Or so the giggling affirmations seemed so to John, because, how good could this bloke be really? He apparently was a legend with remedial massage, and could loosen up the tight shoulder wound John had suffered in the war. John was happy to let the man try but even hospital grade professionals had not managed to give him back his full range of movement.

The door opened and then closed.

"Captain Watson?"

Dear God, was a voice ever so velvety in all creation, or was John high on mud masque fumes?

"Yes." Was all John said, tipping his head to the side and staring through his newly glossed coconut-smelling hair at the vision before him.

The man was tall. Very tall. And thin, like a snake, wiry and sinewy. His long, shiny, full black hair curled to his shoulders in waves and his fringe was swept back tied to the back of his head in a leather thong, leaving the rest to tumble freely. His face was all angles and his eyes were almond shaped. At first John thought the might be Asian due to the stunning emerald silk Chinese pyjamas he wore, but no...no, Caucasian but so very exotic and pretty. Those lips...wow...

"I'm Sherlock." He said, voice a baritone that resonated deep in Johns testicles. "Tell me about your wound."

"Uh..." Was all John could say. 

Sherlock smiled.

"Ah, you have had the full treatment before you got to me." He said, and then...winked. Oh dear lord, wasn't that cute? "So let me help you think. What can you tell me about the angle of the shot, the calibre bullet, blood loss, bone fracture, tissue damage?"

"Did Harry tell you?" John asked, not angry, a bit resigned really. His guard was way down, and he knew it. He didn't really care, it felt nice. He watched as Sherlock rolled up the loose sleeves of his stunning top and squirted some wonderful smelling amber oil into the palms of those long white hands. 

"That you were shot? No. I can see." Sherlock waved to Johns shoulder, where the angry puckered scar sat glaring at the world. "Sniper wound I think, just one bullett, but he only needed one to put you down didn't he?"

Sherlock warmed the oil in his hands, twisting and winding those fingers together, almost hypnotising John with them.

"It was a lucky shot." John said. "From behind. I was bent over like I am now, but my hands were..." He stopped. His hands were deep inside Private Conway's chest, trying to hold the boys heart together. "Occupied..." He finally said.

Sherlock stepped behind, straddled the chair at Johns hips and then gently, warmly, put his oiled hands on Johns shoulders, where they met his neck, and rested his thumbs on the very upper part of Johns spine, under his trimmed hair. He hummed and John shivered.

"What range do you have now?" He asked, voice softer but no less intense.

"I can't lift anything down from the top cupboard in my kitchen with this arm." John said, squirming slightly. "And I cannot put that arm behind my back." 

Sherlock ran his hands down the whole of Johns shoulders and gently grabbed his elbows, bringing Johns arms down to his sides. 

"I see..." He said. "The muscles this side are slightly atrophied from hasty in-the-field surgery, shoddy physio and fear of pain."

"There's real pain too." John added, in case Sherlock thought he was a wuss.

"I'm sure there is John." Sherlock said, and the way that man said his name made John heat up slightly. Sherlocks hands were on his scar now, probing gently, exploring. John was sure the man was only doing his job but the act felt intimate, like he was staring into Johns eyes and smiling. It was disconcerting.

Then suddenly there were two hands on his injured shoulder, pressing hard and rubbing, smoothing his skin and smearing beautiful smelling oil over his wound. It didn't hurt. Which surprised John greatly. Every other remedial masseuse had hurt him and said it was for his own good. In fact, if John had not been as floppy as an aldente noodle, he would have been automatically tensed for the pain. 

"I will try not to hurt you." Sherlock said then, low and soft. "It does not always have to hurt."

John hummed and smiled a little as Sherlocks hands explored and dug into his flesh. It felt truly wonderful and, even though he could feel the hard resistance of his scar tissue, it did not feel like a barrier as it often did. It actually felt more like a simple part of him letting go it's claws and becoming his body again. And the smell of that oil was amazing, like...spices. Or was that Sherlock?

After a while Sherlock gently took hold of Johns wrist and twisted his arm slowly up his back, like he was hauling John in for questioning, pushing him up against a wall and taking...oh, where had THOSE thoughts sprung from? But wait...it didn't hurt! His arm was up behind his back and it didn't hurt.

"Wow...that is amazing..." He whispered. "Thank you."

"I listened to your body John and merely gave it what it wanted."

Oh well those words didn't help at all. Arm held in strong fingers by a man as gorgeous as this and smelling like he did and John so long away from the rough intimacy he had indulged in before he had been shot...

Johns cock filled and he was very glad he was facing away from Sherlock. Maybe he had this effect on all his male clients, maybe he didn't, but John was not mentally equipped enough to day to explain his hard prick to this gorgeous masseuse in any way that would sound remotely non perverted. Truth was, he had always liked rough sex, he had always loved being taken, and he only realised right now how much had been taken from him by one well-aimed bullet.

"I think I will come back to your injured shoulder at a later date." Sherlock said, moving Johns arm back down to a more relaxed position. Then he stroked the whole length of both arms, and, using Johns wrists, positioned them back up on the bench by his head.

"It feels fantastic." John murmered, and took a second to rut his hips forward a bit, using the friction of his pants on his clock head to relieve a tiny bit of tension in the guise of resettling. He could not afford to come back at a later date, but right now that didn't matter.

Sherlock then put his thumbs either side of Johns spine at the base of his back and began firmly pressing them in. John murmed a bit and rutted against his pants once more. Oh this felt devine. And if Sherlock didn't realise the effect he was having on Johns cock, what would it matter if he rutted...just a bit...

Sherlock's magic hands danced over Johns spine, under his shoulder blades, up his neck to the base of his skull. And back down. Rinse, repeat, rinse repeat. Strong sure movements. He would stop and work knots he found until John could feel the heat of blood rising to the surface there, before those wonderful hands moved on and worked somewhere else. John could feel himself slipping into something very akin to sub space and he marvelled again at now long it had been since someone had put him there. He was vaguely aware that his hips were moving ever so slightly, fucking his pants, but he did not care.

Sherlock lent sideways for more oil and when he did, the material of his shirt skittered goosebumps over Johns back and John huffed a small laugh. The smell of the oil hit his nostrils and the sound of it being smeared over Sherlock's hands sounded naughty. In a good way. Like lube being warmed before being smeared over Johns very clean arsehole. He snickered. Bad John.

Then those wonderful hands started on his neck again, cradling his skull and bringing blood to the surface. The knots and tension melted away and it was bliss.

"John, were you aware just now touch starved you are?" Sherlock asked then, voice low, breath on Johns neck. "It is important to be touched every day. It is a connection, keeps you grounded." Sherlocks warm body lent against Johns back, the material glossing over his skin. 

"John, YOU need to be touched every day." This sentence was lower and quieter and closer still, and John shivered, smiling. 

He nodded.

"Yes...." He murmered. It would be nice to be touched regularly again. He had walled himself up since Afganistan, and nobody got through, not even Harry. Before he knew it, a year had passed without any kind touching. Only touches that hurt in a bad way, that hurt his soul more than his body.

Sherlock paused for more oil and then curled himself behind John, his body a furnace against his back, his breath a whisper in his ear. 

"There is nothing like the intimacy of another's hands on your body" Sherlock told him, baritone frizzing down Johns spine even as the mans magic hands began smoothing down the front of Johns chest, pressing and rubbing all the knots there too. "Hands that want to touch you, feel you. Make you better."

John was only very vaguely aware of his breathing hitching, heart beats increasing. He felt cherished. This stranger was looking after him, and he so needed looking after. You can be strong for years, John thought, but even once...even just once, he could be weak and...

Sherlocks cock was hard and hot against Johns back and John was secretly thrilled. His body was making this gorgeous man hard. HIS body. Oh wait...wasn't this a massage, not a date?

He moaned a little as Sherlocks hands dipped lower, using his palms to rub against Johns nipples. John whimpered then and the small breathy sound Sherlock made encouraged him to whimper again. It had been so long..so long since anyone had bothered to see what made John moan, and those palms circling so teasingly lightly on his nipples were doing just that.

"God.....yes...." He whispered, suddenly realising the hard body behind him made it impossible to move. He was pinned against the bench by this perfect smelling stranger and all he could do was suffer those palms on the very tip of his hard hot nipples, circling, circling, not stopping and setting his veins on fire.

"Christ...." He said, hips rutting in earnest now. "Christ yes..."

"John..." Sherlock whispered, and if the man had said anything else it would not have been even half as sexy. Sherlock's hands finally left Johns nipples and slid lower, gently teasing at the soft flesh of Johns stomach, navel, hips. Not massaging now, just dragging his fingertips across skin that yearned for it.

The feel of his trousers being zipped open sent shivers over Johns body, and even as his hot, hard cock was being lifted out into the sudden cold air he thought... I should stop now, I should, this is so wrong...

But once that oily, long fingered hand wrapped round him he forgot where he was. It could be his own bedroom, it could be a Nissan hut, it could be back in his high school sweethearts car...he didn't care. It felt so good he just did not care.

"Yeah?" Came the question hot and low in his ear. It was not a yeah, you want to keep going it was a yeah. I know, this feels good yes? Oh it did..

John thrust into that tight hand and he moaned. 

"Yeah..." He sighed.

Sherlocks hand sped up and John whimpered, curving his back and making Sherlock gasp as his arse touched the masseuses hard prick.

"John..."

Christ, the way the man said his name. Like begging. Like praying.

"Harder." John said, breathless. Sherlock gripped Johns cock harder and sped up, his thumb swiping over the head with all that oily wetness. John had never thought his cock particularly nice. Functional, yes, but not pretty. Sherlocks hand, Sherlocks breathing so fast in his ear, those little sounds the man was making...never had John felt as sexy, as wanted, as needed...

"Your pretty cock, so hard and wet John." Sherlock told him, voice so maddeningly deep that John wanted to suck on it, suck on his throat as he talked, biting the words as they came out.

"Oh-" was all he could say, rutting now in earnest. Sherlock pressed harder into his back, trapping him, holding him fim, his cock rubbing against John. He made small sounds in Johns ear, tiny whimpers and mews like he was out of control and Johns eyes rolled in his head. 

"Jesus John!" Sherlock suddenly whispered, and took Johns lobe in his teeth. "Jesus! John!" He gritted out over the plump flesh in his mouth. He began to rut up against John now, digging the soldiers chest into the head rest of the chair, and none too gently. 

"Oh good Christ...fuck fuck..." John tried to say anything else, anything at all but he just couldn't think with his cock ramming into the tight fist that held him. He felt dizzy, the orgasm building painfully in his belly, his balls becoming rock hard, his toes curling.

"John you are so...beautiful..." Sherlock finally said, so low around the lobe in his teeth and John felt himself coming. He heard himself scream at the first spurt, the pleasure was so great, and then his vision became white and his voice dried up. He jerked against the chair as wave after wave of pleasure rolled over him. He heard Sherlock choke and then felt a warm blush against his back as Sherlock came too, whispering his name in a choked and helpless way that had Johns eyes rolling again, taken away on a pleasure so great he came again.

His body twitched with aftershocks, matching Sherlock's own twitches. Sherlock's breathing was harsh and tortured now, and John could feel the mans heart tripping like mad against his back.

"Perfect John. You did so well. Just perfect..." He whispered.

And right then John felt about as perfect as he had ever done.

#


	2. Thank You Masseur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a masseur who seduces his sexy client. Little does he know the strange man who uses a different name every day, is actually there for less than recreational reasons.

John knew it was only a matter of time before the perfect person for him walked through the door, but he honestly wasn’t expecting it to be a man. As a rule, men were rather uncaring of their feet. So were some women for that matter, but even gay men tended to ignore that most important area for John; not that John couldn’t appreciate a good arse or a fine set of pecks, but for him the feet were the epitome of a person’s personality. If those feet were well cared for- nails trimmed, calluses filed, toes cleaned, and odour sweet- than he knew that the person was meticulous elsewhere. Not necessarily _neat,_ mind you. He’d dated a girl with perfect feet and an apartment that needed to be condemned, but her personal style had been flawless and John was drawn to people who exuded confidence, had excellent hygiene, and dressed beautifully, and the feet were a good tell for all those areas. Callus location told him whether they were on their feet a lot (would he have time for me?) smell told him if they bathed regularly and cared for their footwear (would he be someone I could go down on often?) and the very shape of their foot told him how much he’d want to fuck them sideways (gods, I want to fuck him sideways).

The issue was that he couldn’t just _hit_ on the sexy thing sprawled out naked in front of him, because he was the man’s masseur. After John had been wounded in action he’d been discharged from the army and had to start his life over again at fourty. Since his hand was shaky due to the trauma he’d sustained his therapist suggested he try his hand at something that would also work as a type of physical therapy to strengthen them. As such he’d taken classes for massage therapy and found he enjoyed it. It was soothing to be able to run his hands over someone without any kind of pressure to perform sexually when he might be too drawn into his own head. It had also meant he’d found his foot fetish easily indulged, although most feet were ones he didn’t find very attractive.

“So,” John started, washing his hands in the nearby sink, “What brings you hear today? Treating yourself?”

“Recent injury,” The man replied, “I tore a ligament in my knee while running and had to undergo physical therapy. The physical therapy is nearly over so you needn’t worry about re-injuring me, but I’ve been getting massages to deal with the residual muscle pain.”

“Sounds like a good plan, I’ve been there myself.”

“Shot in the shoulder,” The man replied, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John froze, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

The man turned his curly-mopped head and John got a look at an absolutely perfectly sculpted face and the most pouty lips he’d ever seen on a man. John’s breath caught in his throat and his mouth fell open. He probably looked like a hormone crazed teenager, but having walked in an seen those _perfect_ feet and then been graced with _this!_ All the blood was rushing out of his head and into this pants at an alarming rate. The man was talking. John had only half heard him. He’d explained how he’d come to that conclusion and the logic was almost as dizzying as the man’s fantastic body and fuckable mouth.

“That was… brilliant,” John decided to say.

“Really?” He asked, looking surprised.

“Fantastic, really,” John replied, eyes dropping back to that _mouth_.

“That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” John asked, forcing himself to fetch his cart full of warmed oils, heated rocks, and towels... and then hiding his hard-on behind it.

“Piss off,” The man replied, sounding bitter about it.

John chuckled, “Well, I’m impressed. So what sort of oils do you like? Afraid I can’t just pull the answer out of thin air.”

“It’s a deduction technique, actually,” The man replied, “A science, really. As for the oil I prefer ones that don’t smell overly strong.”

“Is tea tree oil out?” John asked, uncorking it, “Give it a whiff. It helps with inflammation.”

The man sniffed it and nodded, “That’s fine.”

“Excellent. Anything I should know about? Ticklish? Don’t like your feet touched? That sort of thing?”

“Nothing else,” The man shrugged.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh,” John replied awkwardly, “Well, mine’s John. You know. In case you need something to shout out.”

The man snorted in amusement and John realized what he’d said and flinched, “Ah, I didn’t mean that how it sounded. I meant in case I inadvertently press too hard or-”

“Do you frequently injure patients?”

“Well no, but… You know, I’m just going to shut up now.”

John moved to the man’s back and ran the oil over him, smoothing it into his skin as he worked the oil in from top to bottom. The man was _shaved_. Or perhaps waxed. Yes… definitely waxed. He was also muscular, but in a subtle way that showed off how lithe he was. His skin had just a few moles that stopped John from hating him for being so perfect everywhere else. He got down to the soles of his feet and had to bite his lips to keep from moaning because they weren’t just clean, his nails had a clear coat of paint on them. The cuticles showed signs that the man got regular pedicures. John had to pull himself away because his erection had renewed itself and his hips were shifting forward. For the first time John was grateful for the loose, natural fiber trousers that the salon had as dress code.

“I’m going to start now,” John stated, hurrying back to safer territory near the man’s side, “Just tell me how you like it. I mean rough or hard. I _mean_ hard or soft. I mean… bloody hell. I’m sorry, I’m not usually this… I must have had too much coffee today.”

“You’re aroused,” The man chuckled, “Nothing wrong with that. I’m very attractive.”

“Well… yes, I suppose you are, though I don’t usually go for blokes.”

“Mmm, no. You don’t,” The man replied mysteriously. John decided he didn’t want to know what the man had ‘deduced’.

“So what should I call you?” John asked instead.

“Mmm,” The man moaned, putting lie to John’s assumption that his back was safer territory, “That spot. There.”

“Let’s see about getting this knot out of your shoulders, sir. Do you think you can take more pressure, or would you like me to use the rocks?”

“Rocks, but you can use significantly more pressure. I’m no slouch.”

“Good to know.”

“And I’ll understand if you need to sit down.”

John flinched. His leg. The man had mentioned something about his leg. The limp was barely noticeable most of the time, but apparently the man had picked up on it.

“I’m fine, but thank you sir. Anything else you like besides the rocks?” John asked, lining the first one up along his spine.

“Deep tissue. Especially on my feet and calves, I’m afraid they take a beating. Also if you have any… _specials_.”

John shrugged, “Ah, I think they have discount offers at the front desk, but they’re usually for something pretty basic. You’ll be better off if I just comp you for part of it.”

The man sighed as though frustrated, “Fine. Do go on.”

The massage was uneventful after that. John didn’t let himself indulge his longing to fondle the man’s feet, not even to slip a finger between his toes as if they were the nether regions on a woman. The man lay still and mostly silent, leaving without a word or a backward glance when John finished. John stepped out of his room and saw the man standing in his robe and flip flops at the front desk talking to the receptionist.

“Hey Bethy,” John smiled to the receptionist, “Comp his rock treatment for me, yeah? Have a great day, sir.”

John went to turn away but Bethy let out a distressed squeak so he turned back.

“Ahh,” Bethy started, looking flustered.

“Something wrong?” John asked.

“Mr. Lestrade here…” She replied, indicating the man he’d just finished massaging, “Wasn’t very happy with your massage.”

“Wasn’t he?” John asked, eyebrow raised. He thought he knew what was going on now. The man didn’t want to pay, “Well, he can skip tipping me, then. Hopefully you’ll have a better experience with one of our other masseurs.”

“He says he’d like to see someone else,” Bethy replied.

“For _free_ , no doubt,” John replied, giving him a sharp glare, “Well, I’m not sure you’d enjoy that. I doubt someone would be willing to go the extra mile for you under duress.”

The manager was headed over and John braced himself for a scolding as Lestrade squared his shoulders as if preparing for battle. The manager gave John a warning glance and he knew then the man would get what he wanted. John nodded to them both and excused himself to take care of another patient. What he really did was go on break and fume in the small sitting room with a cup of tea. When he returned Lestrade was just leaving another room and Mary, a co-worker, was leaving with a worried look on her face. John waited until the man left, not sparing him a glance, and then headed over to Mary.

“Let me guess? He complained?”

“No,” Mary replied, “He asked for a special… and then didn’t follow through. I’m worried I misread him.”

“Yeah, he asked me for a special, too,” John snorted, “I think he meant _free massage_. Don’t worry. I doubt he’ll be back. Sarah will have caught on to him by now.”

To his surprise, Mary didn’t find this comforting. In fact, she looked downright scared. He was just about to say something comforting to her- and maybe ask her out to dinner- when Susan headed over with a scowl on her face and shooed John off. John saw his next client come in and hurried to finish his shift for the day.

XXX

The next day John walked in to see Lestrade standing there, already in a robe and flip flops despite the fact the place had literally _just_ opened. He was giving Sarah lip and John headed over to throw him and his gorgeous feet out on his arse. Sarah gave John a relieved look and gestured to him.

“Here he is! John will take care of you. He’s got _very_ strong hands. He’ll be perfect!”

The man turned his head slightly and gave John a dismissive look, “I’ve already _had_ him.”

The way he said he’d _had_ John caught him out. It sounded like he meant something else by it, but that couldn’t be right. Why would he imply something sexual? Who _was_ this bloke that Sarah was putting up with his awful behavior?!

“Well…” Sarah gave John a pleading look, “I’m afraid Mary quit last night, Robin called out sick, and Gerard is with another patient. I’d _love_ to accommodate you Mr. Gregson but…”

“Gregson?” John asked, “I thought it was Lestrade?”

“It’s whatever I tell you it is,” The man replied sharply, “I’m paying you for your _confidentiality_.”

Oh. _Oh!_ This man was some sort of diplomat or politician! Maybe an actor? With that body actor made more sense. Sarah was sucking up to him because he was rich, famous, or both. No wonder he was getting the run of the salon!

“You know, Mr Gregson,” John decided, “I think I _can_ accommodate you. Why don’t you come this way and I’ll make sure this is _memorable_ for you.”

The man lifted his chin pompously and strode to the room John had gestured to as if he owned the place.

“ _John_!” Susan hissed, “I think he’s a peeler! Just… don’t do anything stupid!”

John nodded, but he was confused by the term. His skin pealed perhaps? It was probably some slang term he’d missed out because he spent his entire secondary school life studying so he could get into Uni, where he studied relentlessly to keep his scholarship, and then went straight into the military once he’d gotten his degree. He hadn’t had much time for socializing, usually limiting his time to a date with a girl sure to be easy so he could get a lay in before finals. Or it was an industry term, which he’d be unaware of since he was fairly new. Either way he’d already massaged the man and it hadn’t killed either of them, so he wasn’t overly worried. He’d just have to be absolutely _perfect_ this time.

“So. Last time you weren’t too thrilled,” John started up, rubbing his hands with the preferred oil he’d used before, “So why don’t you tell me where I missed out, hm? I’ve been told I have talented hands, so let’s prove that right this time.”

“You’re angry,” The man replied, and then _didn’t_ answer his question.

“If you don’t tell me what you _really_ want, I can’t help you,” John replied.

The man snorted and turned his head to stare at John in an odd way.

“I want to feel _good_ when I’m done. _Satisfied_.”

John was now certain he meant sex. The prick. He was coming here for a lay! Well… two could play at that game.

“I’m sure we can manage to make that happen,” John promised, “Relax please. We’ll start with the rocks again.”

John left the rocks and went down to those gorgeous feet again, deciding he’d work his way up and then remove the rocks. Besides _deep tissue_ on his feet sounded orgasmic to John. He slid his thumbs over the soles, working up to the point where he could apply more pressure. He didn’t want to stress all those bones, just invigorate the muscles. Once he had mapped out all the highs and lows he started to press deeper into the flesh. The man let out a groan of appreciation and his hips shifted. John smiled. This was why he loved being a masseur; the pleasure he could bring people was so simple and complete. He never had to listen to screams of agony as he pulled fragments from a person with only minimal pain management available. Of course, he was intending a _little_ bit of torture for this session. He’d give the bastard what he deserved!

He spent a ridiculous amount of time on those feet, letting his fingers caress the painted toes. John loved this. The fact it was a man’s foot didn’t take away from the eroticism as he fingered them enthusiastically. He was throbbing in his trousers, but he ignored it. He had to remain professional if his plan for vengeance was to work. He went up the man’s calves, triggering sighs and soft grunts, and then slid his hands back down to his ankles. There was a little known erotic zone just below the ankle bone that if stimulated would increase blood flow and drive a man wild. He slid his fingers along it now, using thumb and forefinger to gently tease that area until the blood pulsed faster beneath his fingers. The man let out a startled sound and shifted about on the table.

John grinned wickedly and worked his way back up again. He slid his fingers gently along the backs of the man’s knees, working it until he found the right level of pressure to make his breath speed up again. It worked. He was shifting away as the situation became a bit too much.

“Sorry,” John stated innocently, “Didn’t mean to tickle you. I’ll be more firm from now on.”

John let his voice sound like a promise and the man nodded while giving him a confused- and interested- look over his shoulder. John slid his hands up the back of the man’s thighs, his pressure firm, and let his thumbs dip in between his thighs. He knew this move made a teasing, tingling sensation climb up a man’s bollocks and alert his cock to all manner of possible sensual contact. This man was no different and his legs parted so quickly that his feet fell of either side of the table, his hips arching up in the hopes of some contact with his bits. John denied it, sliding his hand back down and adding just a _bit_ of nails with one finger on each hand. The man gasped and shivered.

“Sorry about that,” John sighed, “I thought I trimmed them enough this morning. Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” He replied, his voice strangled.

John silently congratulated himself, and would have stopped despite the request to continue had the man not suddenly thought up a suggestion.

“You can return to my feet if you like. I know they’re a fetish for you.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that?” John asked, more surprised than angry. He was subtle about it, even with girlfriends who knew. Most had no idea he secretly worshiped their feet or shoes.

“You look at a woman’s feet before anything else,” Sherlock replied, “You prefer high heels to flats. You also secretly wish to see a man in heels. I saw you when you walked in, glancing from Ms. Sawyers shoes to my footwear. I’ve worn heels many times for my profession so I can definitely attest to their pros and cons. While they are quite painful they do make a person feel _very_ attractive. The first time I wore them I stared at my calves in the mirror for _hours_.”

John swallowed. Hard. He had meant to excite the man and then leave him wanting, but the vision of this gorgeous chunk of flesh standing in front of a mirror in nothing but high heels, perhaps with his cock at attention, was driving John wild.

“What else did you do?” He asked, before his brain could remind his mouth to shut the fuck up. He was alarmed at the husky tone to his voice.

“Masturbated, of course,” The man replied, “Just because it’s _my_ body doesn’t mean I’m unaware of how sculpted it is. I see no shame in enjoying the view. Few others get to.”

“I’m getting a pretty good view right now,” John pointed out, ignoring his urge to rush down there and suck on the man’s toes. _At this rate you’ll move up to his cock for the grand finale. Stop it. Focus._

“So you are,” The man chuckled, “You’ve got me quite aroused. Few are capable of that.”

“You make it sound like a club,” John snickered.

The man didn’t reply and John decided he wanted a bit of tit for tat. The man was easily driving John crazy, so John decided to do the same. He removed the rocks on his back and began stroking the muscles there, finding time to tease his hips as he pressed deeply into the flesh at his back. He stroked the edges of his collar bone as he worked his neck and slid down to tease the undersides of his arms and inside of his elbows in between massaging his arms. It was all meant to seem accidental, though they both knew it was intentional. The man was panting a bit again, his earlier arrogance gone. John was grinning wickedly. Time to head for his master plan and humiliate the prick.

“You asked about a special yesterday?” John mentioned, playing innocent again, “I didn’t really realize what you meant then, but I think I know now. I have the training for it, not professionally, obviously, but I’m sure I can give you what you need. I think… and correct me if I’m wrong… you were looking for something a bit more… intimate?”

“How much?” The man asked rather quickly, his body tensing a bit.

“No charge,” John replied, “Consider it an apology for yesterday.”

The man sighed as if relieved, “Fine. Go ahead.”

“I’ll have to remove your towel. I just want to make sure this is what you want, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. One _intimate_ massage coming up.”

John slid the towel down and refreshed the oil on his hands with simple olive oil that wouldn’t sting if it dripped into his arse. He ran his hands over that perfectly sculpted ass and wondered at his assumption of heterosexuality for so many years. He wondered if there was a sexual position between two men that would allow him to bugger this man while staring at his feet. He’d managed that with women easily enough, but with a man? The angle might be difficult, but he figured if the man was flexible enough than he could bend him in half, squat over him, and…

The man moaned throatily, his hips lifting up off the table. John realized in horror he hadn’t just been stroking his thumbs along his arsecheeks as he’d meant to, instead he’d dipped close and spread his cheeks a bit. The cold air on that intimate an area, made moist by the oil dripping into the cleft, had triggered the man’s reaction. John couldn’t even _begin_ to stop himself from taking the next step. His thumbs slid down, circling closer and closer to his arsehole until Sherlock was panting, his hole fluttering and winking at John. He ran one thumb around while the other held his full rump open. The man’s hips stuttered and he let out a soft sound of surprise.

“Good?” John asked, because he’d crossed the professional line so long ago that he’d better damn well at least _check_ with him after _not_ asking for consent before stroking his arsehole!

“S-so good,” He gasped, as John gave his hole a firm tap that had him opening up for him.

“Mmm, you love this,” John growled. He wanted to rim him, but he wasn’t about to go that far with a man he didn’t know. Instead he slid down between those spread legs and stroked along his perineum, rubbing until his hips lifted for more and then pressing to stimulate his prostate.

“Fuck!” The man cried out.

“Sssshhh,” John soothed, “Not so loud, yeah? I could loose my job for this. Hell, my license, too. You want more?”

“Yes,” He whispered.

John knew he should have him roll over. He hadn’t paid the man’s front _any_ attention, but this was easier. If he had him facing him John would lose his nerve in the face of such a very _wrong_ situation. He was denying every ethical rule he’d ever followed, spitting in the face of morals he’d followed for his entire career.

“A bit more oil, then,” John replied.

And found his way back to the cart to return with drenched hands. He took one of the man’s hands and smeared it with oil.

“Lube yourself up, then. If you rub against that table any more you’ll chafe yourself something awful,” John instructed, then went back to his ministrations of the man’s full arse.

“You aren’t going to…”

“I’m already _way_ out of line.”

The stranger kept his hand on the table, open and dripping with a pool of oil in the palm, while John went back to stroking his arse, dipping his thumbs into the sensitive underside and stroking between his thighs. He cupped his bollocks and the man’s hips lifted as he gasped in surprise. He was surprised at how full they were; the man clearly needed release. John was horrified to find he was more than willing to give it to him in the face of the vulnerable and almost frightened look on his face as he watched John move around the table.

“You okay?”

“Y-yes,” He panted, his head falling back to the table. He lifted his hips and pushed back.

John stroked his body with more purpose now, his own ardour throbbing against the confines of his clothes. He spread his cheeks and stroked his pucker again, earning him a soft moan. When he leaned down and blew air softly across the sensitive area the man gasped and his hips stuttered. He let out a pained swear and shifted, stuffing the lubricated hand beneath him to wrap it around his cock and slick up his member.

“I warned you,” John chuckled.

Once the man had his hand around his prick he apparently wasn’t able to let go. He began to thrust into his clenched fist, gasping as he worked himself into a frenzy. John ran his hands over his back and down to his arse, hips, and thighs. When it seemed clear the massage portion of this seduction was over John slid a hand beneath his thighs and encouraged his excitement by stroking his bollocks and perineum with a slippery hand. He used his thumb to press against the man’s p-spot each time his hips threw back, two of his fingers sliding along the seam at his testicles until they parted and drew up into his body.

“That’s it, gorgeous,” John growled.

“Ah, ah, ah!” He gasped out his climax, his hips flexing powerfully as the muscles along his body rippled and his legs clenched.

John slipped his hand away from him, wanting nothing more than to toss off but he’d already crossed more lines today than he was willing. The man shifted then, still panting slightly from his explosive release. He lifted his legs fully back onto the table and shifted downward so his feet were hanging off the end.

“Go ahead,” He murmured, his voice sleepy with satisfaction as he wiggled his toes, “I know you want to.”

That was all the convincing John needed. He rounded the table, tossing oil onto the man’s feet, and pressed them together, guiding them to point a bit. He thrust his cock in between his inner arches, pressing his bollocks into the cradle of his feet. As he began to move his cock slid between ankle and heel, the head grazing along his smooth calves. It was perfect; everything he’d ever imagined when he’d tossed him self off or stared at the smooth, delicate arch of a foot while fucking a wet cunt. This was fantasy fulfilled, and he barely smothered his cries of pleasure as he stared at the perfect swell of his arse. The man looked over his shoulder and gave John a saucy wink.

“Enjoying yourself? I had a pedicure last week, but I bet you’d have done a better job. Would you like that? To kneel at my feet, clean them, stroke them, paint my toenails obscene colours?”

“Fuck!” John choked out, his cock throbbing hard. He was close to orgasm and the man was driving him crazy.

“Or perhaps you’d like to fuck me? I’m quite flexible. There’s a position called the pile driver that would satisfy all of your urges at once. You could bury yourself inside of me while biting my ankles and sucking on my toes. I’d keep them so clean for you. Perhaps even covered in something sweet like caramel so you could devour me while you had your way with me.”

John’s eyes rolled back in his head as he came, his cock spurting across the man’s gorgeous legs. He could feel his own toes stretching up and then curling as pleasure coursed through him. The man had reduced him to whimpering and shaking as his body tried to empty itself of every crop of semen it contained. John let out a shaky breath as he slid his still twitching cock free, a few drops of come landing on the floor.

“I’m going to have a hell of a time cleaning this up,” John stated, laughing shakily.

The man sat up, his legs dangling over the edge of the table like a child’s as he stared at John with an almost shy look on his face.

“Sherlock,” He stated.

“Sorry?” John asked.

“My name. My _real_ name. It’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh. Um. Okay. You already know my first, Watson is the second.”

“John Watson,” Sherlock nodded, “Thank you.”

“Oh… um,” John blushed. He’d never been thanked for sex before.

“What do I owe you?”

“Shit. Nothing,” John stammered, suddenly embarrassed as he tugged up his trousers, “I can’t charge you for this, it would be unethical- _more_ unethical, that is. Just… look, you’d better go. Just do me a favour and don’t tell Ms Sawyer. I’d like to keep my job _and_ my license, thank you very much.”

John handed him his towel and the man used it to wipe the spunk from his body before plucking his robe from the hook and wrapping it around himself. He slipped into his flip flops and John opened the door for him, eyes resolutely down. Not in shame, no. He was watching those gorgeous feet walk out of his life for good, because there was no way in hell he’d ever let himself indulge in Sherlock Holmes again. He’d lose himself.

XXX

Halfway through John’s next client- after he’d taken some time to wash up- he was interrupted with a sharp knock on the door.

“Occupied!” John called, “Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I…”

“Police!” The voice shouted, “Make yourselves decent!”

John stilled in alarm and the door was thrown open. John stood there with his hands hovering over his client and a shocked look on his face as a dark skinned woman with smart Italian shoes stood in the doorway.

“Hands away from her, keep them where I can see them.”

“Oh dear!” Mrs. Hudson shrilled, sitting up and clutching her towel to her, “What’s going on?”

“This parlor is being shut down, ma’am,” The woman stated, “You’ll have to put on this robe and come with me.”

A man with prematurely graying hair stepped in behind her and nodded to John, “Come with me, sir. You know your rights?”

“I don’t understand,” John replied in alarm, “What’s going on? This is just a massage parlor. There’s nothing illegal going on here.”

The man rattled off his rights while guiding John into the waiting room by one arm. Sarah was there, in handcuffs, sobbing so hard that snot and tears were drenching her face. Mary was beside her, looking pale and drawn in off-white clothes with the broad arrow across them.

“I thought you quit,” John stammered.

“I was arrested yesterday,” She replied, looking miserable, “That _bastard_ was a peeler! He had me charged with prostitution! I didn’t even _do_ anything!”

John felt his face drain. Peeler had to mean undercover cop, though he hadn’t heard the lingo before. Now the references to ‘specials’ and questions about a fee were painfully clear and he realized what a fool he’d made of himself. John didn’t even protest as the metal bracelets clicked onto his wrist. He was guided out into the street and ducked his head to drop into the seat of a panda wagon. Gerard was loaded in next to him and the man gave him a disdainful look.

“I didn’t think you were in on it,” He stated blandly, “Let me guess… _you’re_ the reason we’re all being booked? Tried your hand and got _caught_ , didn’t you? Sarah was counting on you to be the one she could throw the peelers to.”

John didn’t answer. He let his head fall against the window and watched London crawl past, feeling sick to his stomach. How could he ever explain this to his sister? She had always seen him as the ‘good’ child, now she’d be gloating awfully. He wasn’t sure he could face it without having a complete breakdown. He’d already lost _everything_ he’d ever worked for, all due to one bullet. Now he’d lose the life he’d hesitantly built for himself after his fall from grace all because of one mistake name Sherlock Holmes.

 _If that was even his real name_.

XXX

“I told you. I’ve never charged anyone for sex,” John stated again, stubbornly holding his ground. He hadn’t said anything else and wouldn’t do so. He was determined to beat these charges and, hopefully, manage to start over again.

“Yeah, except we have Ms. Sawyer’s statement that you promised our mole a good time.”

“I’ve never charged anyone for sex. Ever.”

“So you’re having sex with clients, but _not_ charging them?”

John pressed his lips together and glared.

“I’ve never charged anyone for sex. Ever.”

“Why don’t you explain to me why you were the only one _not_ charging for sex?”

“I’ve never charged anyone for sex. Ever.”

“Let’s start over,” Lestrade said with a calm that came from years of experience. This was apparently the Lestrade that Sherlock had stolen the name of for a day. If his mayfly man even _was_ named Sherlock.

John gave Lestrade a cold smile, showing his willingness to continue with this game for as long as he was able to keep it up. Lestrade opened his mouth to speak, but the door being thrown open distracted him.

“Damn it, Lestrade! I _gave_ you the names of the people responsible! What are you doing questioning my boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?” Lestrade asked.

“Boyfriend?” Donovan gaped.

John was too busy staring to reply, which was good since he’d have probably echoed the question and halted Sherlock’s strange jailbreak. Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway to the interrogation room with one hand on the door and the other gesturing at John in apparent outrage. However, that wasn’t what had riveted John’s attention. He was staring down at a pair of designer stiletto high heels that Sherlock was tapping aggressively against the floor. John had never been so jealous of a floor in his life. Sherlock swooped in and caught his chin, pressing a firm kiss to his lips before straightening up and giving Lestrade another scowl.

“You’ve _ruined_ everything! I was going to take him out to dinner tonight to celebrate the case! He never _showed up!_ Guess why? Hm?”

“Because Ms. Sawyer fingered him as a suspect?” Lestrade tried, giving him just as much sass back.

“The only one fingering him _is me_ ,” Sherlock snarled, “Come on John, we’re leaving!”

John cleared his throat and pointed to the handcuff keeping him in his chair.

“Lestrade, uncuff my boyfriend!”

“ _Boyfriend_?” Donovan repeated in shock.

“Fine,” Lestrade sighed, “Sorry about this Watson.”

“Just a misunderstanding,” John replied carefully, glancing sideways at Sherlock.

“You were brilliant,” Sherlock smiled, “I was almost convinced you were working for them myself. Mrs. Hudson’s acting was terrible though, don’t you think? I think she’s the one who gave us away.”

“Ahh,” John stood slowly as his hand was released, “I think it was you, actually.”

“Me?” Sherlock asked in shock.

“Sarah- er Ms. Sawyer- told me you were a Peeler.”

“Damn!” Sherlock stomped his heeled foot, “What gave me away?”

“I think you came back too many times in one week,” John shrugged.

“Are you wearing women’s shoes?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed cheerfully, “John bought them for me. Hungry, John?”

“Freak just gets freakier,” Donovan muttered.

“Ahh,” Lestrade motioned for Sherlock, “You’ll need to get Mrs. Hudson out of holding, too. She’s not been charged, but she needs you to speak for her before they release her.”

Sherlock scoffed, “And have John spend the night shushing me when I could be screaming on the top of my lungs in pleasure? I think not. She’ll keep for the night.”

Sherlock took John by the arm and led him out of the room, his hips swaying and his heels clacking on the floor. John adjusted his erection as they stepped into the elevator and Sherlock smirked.

“So. Nark.”

“No, Consulting Detective.”

“Never heard of it.”

“I invented it,” Sherlock replied proudly, “I help the police when they’re out of their depth, which is nearly always. Normally my cases are quite a bit more high profile but… well, I was bored and this is better than cocaine.”

“A good deal, yeah,” John replied in alarm.

“No worries. Clean for years now. Come along, I’ll show you our flat.”

“Sorry… our flat?” John asked, hurrying after him.

“Yes, I’ve been looking for a flatmate for ages and now here you are.”

“I’ve already got a flat.”

“I know. It was horrid. I had Mycroft break your lease.”

“Who?”

“My brother,” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder as John held the door open for him and he breezed past, “He’s the British Government. When he isn’t busy being the CIA or Secret Service.”

“I don’t understand,” John decided.

“Don’t worry, you’ll catch on,” Sherlock chirped, hailing a cab out of literally nowhere, “I took the liberty of having your things moved to mine. You can have the upstairs bedroom for your things, but I hope you’ll agree to sleep in my bed with me. Assuming you’re still interested in me?”

John had just slipped into the cab beside Sherlock and stared longingly as the man reinforced his question by crossing his legs. His shapely foot was a few inches from John’s knee and he found himself hoping for a bump to make them collide.

“Oh. Gods. Yes.”

XXX

John’s muscles burned, his heart hammered in his chest, and his eyes roved over the body and face of the man beneath him. Sherlock was bent double, his feet bouncing in the air as John crouched over him and drove his cock into his body fast and hard. A week with this man as his lover and he wasn’t even close to getting tired of fucking him senseless. He was beginning to appreciate all the endurance training he’d gotten in the army. Gone was his limp, replaced by that ‘freshly fucked’ walk that had Sherlock drooling all over his microscope. Whether John topped or bottomed, whether Sherlock’s perfect feet were involved, John was easily having more sex- and _better_ sex- than he had ever had in his life.

Sherlock’s mouth was open in a wide ‘O’ of tortured pleasure; his hands were grasping John’s calves, nails digging in. John’s hands clasped beneath his knees as crouched over him and buried his cock into his arse over and over again. John was holding himself back from climaxing despite the fact he was so very close. He knew if he tried hard enough he could make Sherlock come untouched, but it seemed the position was keeping him right on the edge without allowing him to climax.

“John!” Sherlock gasped out, “Get _on_ with it!”

John gave Sherlock’s jam covered big toe one last suck and let himself come with a long groan.

Sherlock grinned cruelly, “My turn.”

John nodded and slipped out of him, still panting as he lowered his hand for a very different sort of massage than he’d been trained for. Sherlock rolled over and groaned as John slid two fingers into his wet hole, grinning wickedly at the lewd sounds. John curled his fingers and began to rub at the small gland he felt there. Sherlock started out moaning, his hips rolling to aid John’s venture as he writhed in pleasure. John knew that would change soon. The poor bastard loved it until he got to the point where he knew his orgasm was dripping away. He’d argue and shout and try to push John away while pulling him in again.

Just as John was contemplating the complexity of Sherlock’s prostate massage kink, and enjoying the filthy feel of his own spunk saturating Sherlock’s insides, his ‘fight or flight’ routine kicked in. John sat down firmly on his thighs to pin him in place while the man began to shout and struggle.

“John! Enough! Fuck!”

“Do you want to safe word out?”

“I don’t know!”

“No, that’s not it.”

“Jooohn! Fuck! I’m running out of semen!”

“No you’re not, you’re not nearly there. The average man has…”

“FUCK THE AVERAGE MAN!”

“I don’t think you’d be okay with that seeing as how we’re exclusive.”

“Fuck ME!”

“Can’t. Done. You want to wait for an hour?”

“NO! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Give me a hand!”

“Can’t clap now, one of my hands is busy in your arse.”

“I will kill you and they will _never_ find the body!” Sherlock snarled in a voice that truly sounded like it belonged in a horror flick.

“Don’t doubt it.”

“Let me come!”

“Not yet.”

“Get your damn hand out of my ass!”

“Safe word?”

“Uhhhhnnnnn.”

Sherlock began to thrash on the bed, and his hand flew around and pulled John’s hand free. John let him, knowing full well what would happen after a couple of breaths. Sure enough he whimpered, shifted, and pressed John’s hand back against him.

“You want it again?” John asked, his voice a sultry purr.

“Y-yes.”

“You want my fingers in you again?”

“Fucking YES!”

“Or do you want to come?”

Sherlock whimpered and shifted about, lifting his hips and rubbing himself against the bed, “John… I’m so close.”

“Come or finger you?” John asked again, his fingers stroking his entrance.

“F-fingers.”

John was surprised. He didn’t often choose to continue. John slid his fingers into him again, stroking his prostate firmly while Sherlock pushed back to relieve the pressure on his cock. Curious, John crawled backwards off of him and Sherlock got up on his hands and knees, his legs spread. The duvet was sticky from his leaking prick, a string of his come connecting his unsheathed tip to the bedding.

“Gods, that’s gorgeous,” John panted, “You want me to drain it all?”

“Y-yes. No. Yes. No.”

“You better make up your mind.”

Sherlock whimpered, his hips rolling as he humped the air. He was lost in a cycle of want. His bollocks were so tight that John gave them a gentle stroke to make sure he was okay.

“C-come,” Sherlock gasped, and his tone told John all he needed to know.

John slipped his finger free and grasped Sherlock’s cock with a slick hand. He pumped him once, twice, and then sighed in relief as the man’s cock spurted weakly. He let out a groan of relief and collapsed sideways onto the bed. His arms were shaking and he had a lazy grin on his face as he panted until his lungs wheezed.

“You okay?”

“Ooof course.”

“I have no idea why you like that.”

“It’s how we met.”

“I did _not_ bleed your orgasm away the day we met.”

“You massaged me.”

“Yeah, _outside_ of your arse.”

“It’s the symbolism that counts.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not.”

“Your fingers are magic.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And I don’t even _believe_ in magic.”

“Maybe I should try harder next time,” John chuckled, “I bet I could aloha your mora.”

“Was that Hawaiian?”

“Never mind you prat. Go to sleep.”

“Can’t. Shower.”

“Go shower than, you’re taking up the whole bed.”

Sherlock struggled upright and staggered a few steps to the bathroom door, pushing it open and then pausing. John glanced up from where he was cleaning himself up with some wet wipes.

“Something wrong?” John asked.

“No… just…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“I’m glad we met, John.”

John snorted and shook his head, “Yeah, I love you too. Prat.”


End file.
